


Somewhere Down at the End of Your Rope

by wreckingthefinite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dirty Talk, Future Fic, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Rentboy Stiles, Rentboys, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5785693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“What do you do for a living?” Derek finally asks.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>“Why, I fuck strangers for money,” Stiles says in an ‘aw shucks’ tone, one eyebrow cocked, watching Derek’s expression.  “I’m an escort.  Rent boy.  Prostitute.  Hooker.  Whore.”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gonna Chase Myself a Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Because everyone who writes fanfic has to write a rentboy fic at some point, and apparently my time has come. This will be updated once or twice a week until it's finished--and will probably be a reasonably long fic (over 20K). 
> 
> [Fic title is a line from Jason Isbell's "To a Band That I Loved." Chapter title is from Charlie Robison's "New Year's Day."]

The bar is dark, more shadows than light, and even with werewolf vision, it’s hard to see much. Derek can see enough, though, to know he wants the man at the other end of the bar.

He’s lanky—skinny, really—and the jeans he’s wearing are slung low on his hips. He’s leaning against the bar, lazy and sprawling in the way that people can only seem to pull off when they know they’re attractive, when they know that other people want to fuck them. When he shifts just right, raises one arm to run a hand through his messy hair, a perfect, delicate hipbone is exposed. Derek hasn’t been able to see his face yet—he’s leaning over talking to a man on the barstool next to him, facing away from Derek—but his side view is gorgeous. 

Derek scents the air again, trying to get a read on him. His body language suggests he’s interested in the man seated at the bar beside him. He’s leaning in, practically whispering in the man’s ear, occasionally reaching out and brushing the man’s shoulder. But his scent is all wrong. There’s no sweet scent of arousal, no sharp note of pleasant anxiety that should accompany flirting with someone at a bar, which the man clearly appears to be doing. Instead he smells—calm, maybe verging on bored? 

Derek tries to be discreet, not overtly staring at them. It’s hard, though. There’s something about the man that draws him. And it’s strange. He’s normally not nearly this focused on a particular person. Derek gets laid regularly—it’s easy, people fall all over themselves to get his attention—and he’s always amiable enough, happy to take someone home for a night. Sometimes women, curved and soft under his hands, happy to bounce on his cock and grab at the flat planes and ridges of his belly for balance, or let him tuck their legs up on his wide shoulders and bend them in half beneath him. And sometimes men, big strong men like himself, or pretty little ones who feel fragile beneath him. He’s catholic in his tastes, with only a slight preference for lithe, fine-boned men like the one he’s eyeing tonight. Really, he’s not picky. He shouldn’t care this much. 

But he does. 

He drains the last of his beer and gets up, ostensibly to go to the bathroom. 

He walks right past the two men at the bar, and he cuts his eyes to the right as he nears them, unable to resist what seems to be almost a magnetic pull. 

The man sprawling against the bar raises his face up just as Derek comes up past him, and their eyes connect. 

Stiles fucking Stilinski. 

Stiles Stilinski, in skin tight black jeans and a t-shirt two sizes too small, with eyeliner smeared around his big brown eyes, and a silver necklace tight around his throat. 

Derek almost stumbles. Catches himself, tries to school his expression into something that isn’t just poleaxed surprise. He hasn’t seen Stiles in—what, seven years? At least. 

Shit. The last time he saw the kid was probably the Sheriff’s funeral. Stiles would have been eighteen then. 

Before Derek can speak, Stiles is detaching himself from the man next to him without a backward glance. He quirks his lips up at Derek, the left corner of his mouth pulling up. “Derek Hale,” he drawls. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Derek blinks. “I could say the same.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’ve lived in Walker for years. What brings you up here?”

The answer is a bit convoluted. Technically, he’s up here doing a few runs for Scott, as they’re looking to possibly expand pack territory, and Derek knows more about werewolf politics than anyone else in the pack. The truth is that Derek could have easily gone back to Beacon Hills after his scouting run tonight—it’s early, and it’s only a two hour drive even if you’re driving the speed limit, which Derek does not. But he’s been restless lately. Uneasy. So he’d wound up in this dark bar, just on the edge of the wrong side of town, in no hurry to return to Beacon Hills. 

“Pack stuff,” Derek says, because that’s enough, really. 

“Some things never change, do they?” Stiles doesn’t look as if he expects Derek to answer. 

“You did,” Derek says, looking Stiles up and down. It’s sort of tactless, but he’s just so _surprised_. Stiles has been out of Beacon Hills for years, all but lost contact with everyone after his father died—and it turns out he was here all along, just a few hours away, hanging out in scummy working class bars in scummy, working class Walker? 

Stiles grins, and it looks feral, almost dangerous. For the briefest of moments, Derek is reminded viscerally of the nogitsune, the way that his presence had changed everything about Stiles’ face, turned sweet mischief into dangerous cunning. “I guess I did,” Stiles says. He runs a hand up his chest, letting the thin fabric of his threadbare black t-shirt pull tight across him. Tattoos run the length of his forearm, disappear under his sleeve. 

Derek swallows, tries to think of how he wants to play this. He jerks his chin toward the bathroom. “I’ll be right back. Let me buy you a drink?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, curling his lips into that dangerous smile again. “How could I possibly say no to that?”

Before Derek can respond, the man from the bar, the one Stiles had been talking to, is standing behind Stiles. “Let’s go, baby,” he says, laying a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. 

Derek feels his hand curling into a fist. The man’s hand on Stiles is causing a visceral reaction, and it shouldn’t. 

“Sorry, darlin’,” Stiles says, not sounding sorry in the least. “This here is an old friend of mine, and he’s gonna buy me a drink.”

The man flashes a dismissive look at Derek. “Tell him your time this evening has already been spoken for.” 

Derek swallows down a growl that threatens to break out of his throat. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Derek’s got a couple of inches and a good forty pounds on him—he’d love to put his lights out. 

“Oh, but honey, it hasn’t been,” Stiles says, sounding nothing like the boy Derek had known. “Shoulda sealed the deal sooner, baby. Waited too long.” 

The man steps forward, his stance aggressive, and Derek is suddenly between the man and Stiles. He didn’t mean to be, didn’t plan on it, but—but he can’t seem to help it. 

“Is there gonna be a problem?” he asks, letting just a hint of a growl creep into his voice. Not enough to be recognizably inhuman—but enough to be frightening. 

The man drops his eyes, and Derek reads it as the submission it is, even as the man says sullenly, “You his pimp or something?” 

Derek doesn’t respond, just grabs Stiles by the arm and heads for the bathroom. Which, in hindsight, probably makes it look a bit like yes, he is.

And what the fuck? Does Stiles _have_ a pimp? Is that what the fuck is happening here?

Stiles lets Derek tug him along, propel him into the men’s room, and when the door shuts behind them, he wriggles out of Derek’s grasp and perches on the edge of the sink, long legs dangling. 

“Should I thank you for rescuing me?” 

Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom, Stiles looks a little tired—still beautiful, still alluring, but tired. The kohl around his eyes is smudged a bit in one corner, and his lips are red and a little chapped, as if he’s been chewing on them. The black polish on his fingernails is chipped.

“Should I ask why you needed to be rescued?” Derek counters. 

“What do you really wanna ask me?” Stiles says, leaning back against the mirror behind him and swinging his feet. It’s a weirdly childlike gesture, at odds with the rest of him. 

Derek studies him for a minute, trying to square the Stiles he’s seeing right now—lounging in the dirty bathroom of a little shitty dive bar in this little shitty town—with the boy he’d known back in Beacon Hills. 

He can’t. 

“What do you do for a living?” Derek finally asks. 

“Why, I fuck strangers for money,” Stiles says in an ‘aw shucks’ tone, one eyebrow cocked, watching Derek’s expression. “I’m an escort. Rent boy. Prostitute. Hooker. Whore.”

*

By the time Derek orders a third round of of drinks—whiskey and soda for Stiles, pointless beer for himself—he’s starting to accept that this is really Stiles. The brave, reckless boy he knew all those years ago has grown up to become the man sitting on the barstool beside him, drinking whiskey and drumming his long fingers on the bar. 

Derek wants to ask him a million questions—wants to know how long he’s been doing this, why he started. What he did after he left Beacon Hills at eighteen. Why he didn’t go to college. He has so many questions, but he doesn’t know how to phrase any of them that don’t sound like he’s fishing for an explanation for Stiles’ being a hooker. 

Which is what he would be doing. 

So he doesn’t ask. Instead, he lets Stiles carry the conversational ball, and it turns out that in the years since he’s last seen Stiles, the awkward kid he’d known has been replaced with a smooth, easy man who makes small talk as if it’s his job. 

Which, Derek realizes, it sort of is. Among other things. 

Stiles asks about Scott in particular and the pack in general, guides Derek through a conversation about Beacon Hills that somehow manages to avoid references to either of their sets of dead parents. 

He’s good at this, Derek thinks, when he realizes how at ease he is with Stiles. And it’s bizarre. He shouldn’t feel comfortable with him. Derek hasn’t seen him in years, and the man Stiles has become seems to have little in common with the spastic kid Derek knew. For Christ sake, he’s a fucking hooker. Nothing about this should feel comfortable or easy—and yet it does. 

“So I hate to do this,” Stiles says, draining his glass and sucking on an ice cube before letting it drop back into his glass, “but I should go. It’s getting late, and if I want to work tonight, I’ve got to get on it.” He smirks. “So to speak.” 

Derek blinks, nods. Of course he does.

The idea is abhorrent. 

“What does it cost?”

Stiles eyes him over the rim of his empty glass, tongue darting out to catch another ice cube. “Depends what you want.”

“All night.” Fuck. Derek can’t believe he’s saying this. He shouldn’t be saying this. 

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “I’d say more than you can afford, but I know that isn’t true.” He gives Derek an appraising stare, as if he doesn’t think Derek will really go through with it. “$500 for the night, and you buy the hotel room.” 

“Done.” 

Stiles sets his glass down and smiles, toothy and somehow suggestive. “Lead the way, Mr. Hale.”

*

There’s a couple of motels by the interstate, and Derek rents a room at the Days Inn. It’s a little rundown, a little seedy. It seems right, somehow. 

When they actually walk into the room, Derek doesn’t quite know how to proceed. He’s had any number of one night stands—more than he can count, anymore—but he’s never had one that he’s paid for. 

Maybe his unease shows on his face, because Stiles steps right up into his personal space, so close that their chests nearly brush. “Well, Derek? You better get your money’s worth,” he says, flashing a cocky grin. 

Derek brings his hands up, lets them rest on Stiles’ shoulders. It’s the first time they’ve touched since Derek tugged Stiles into the bathroom at the bar. He’s not sure what to do. Is he allowed to kiss Stiles? Do hookers kiss? He has the idea that they don’t—but he’s thinking he may have gotten that idea from _Pretty Woman_ , which is probably not exactly a font of accurate information. 

It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because Stiles takes the lead, dropping to his knees in front of Derek, mouthing at his thighs, nearing his cock, before he looks up. “I’ll suck your cock until you see stars, if that’s how you want to start. But we don’t have to—we can do anything you want.” He flashes that suggestive, dirty smile again, looking up at Derek. “What do you want? Hmm?”

He rocks back on his heels and gives Derek a thoughtful look. “Did you want to fuck me when you knew me before? Push me up against a locker and just fuck me senseless? Or maybe climb through my window one night, climb into bed with me? Cover my mouth to keep me quiet?” 

Derek hadn’t, exactly, wanted to fuck Stiles back in Beacon Hills. He’d been aware of Stiles as a potentially attractive kid. Had, perhaps, considered the possibility a few times while jerking off, maybe especially after one of the times they’d ended up thrown together in a life-or-death situation. But mostly he’d been consumed, back then, with survival, with grief, with the weight of crushing responsibility he’d been in no way prepared for. So had he wanted to fuck Stiles then? Maybe, in a sort of nebulous, inchoate way, he’d known he would have enjoyed it. But that was different from actively wanting it. 

That’s far too much to explain to Stiles, of course, and it’s not as if Stiles actually cares about the answer, anyway. He’s just playing a part, looking up at Derek with wide, innocent eyes that are at odds with his talented fingers gripping Derek’s cock through his jeans. 

“Would you have let me?” Derek asks, deflecting a little, but also genuinely curious about the answer. 

Stiles laughs. “Of course I would have. Big, brooding, mysterious stranger who kept throwing me into walls, pinning me against shit?” His voice drops an octave, and Derek realizes quickly that everything that comes after that shift in tenor isn’t exactly true, is work-talk. “Would have got on my knees for you, just like this. Wouldn’t have known what to do, would have let you show me _exactly_ how you liked it.” He mouths at Derek’s cock again, licking up the length of his hardon that is pressed painfully against his jeans. “Would have choked on it, gagged, got spit all over you. Would have let you fuck my mouth till I couldn’t breathe, till tears were running down my face.” He looks up at Derek, sucks in his bottom lip in a lewd invitation. “You can do that right now if you want, daddy.”

Derek jerks a little at the word. It’s not, necessarily, that he’s opposed to it. Under the right circumstances, he would probably let Stiles call him that all he wanted. Unbidden, images flash in his mind’s eye of fucking Stiles hard, bending him over something—a table, a chair—while Stiles calls him daddy, cries for him, and yes, objectively, he could like that. A lot, possibly. Might even want to turn Stiles over his knee and spank him, while he’s at it. 

But right now? Like this? With Stiles smirking up at him, with that knowing look on his face, like he knows exactly what Derek wants? Like Derek is just another asshole who wants to hold Stiles down, fuck him dirty and cheap, get off on feeling stronger than Stiles, on bending his lithe little body to his will? Derek doesn’t want that. 

If Stiles ever submitted to him, he’d want it to be real. A gift. Something Stiles wanted, needed. Not something Derek paid for. 

Fuck. 

“Get up,” Derek says, frowning as he tugs Stiles to his feet.


	2. There's a Darkness Upon Me (That's Flooded In Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title taken (obviously) from The Avett Brothers, "Head Full of Doubt."

Stiles gets to his feet and looks at Derek, trying to get a read on him. He’s good at it—seeing what people want, sometimes knowing it before they do, and then giving it to them.

Sometimes _controlling_ it a little. Not forcing, but…guiding. Manipulating, if you wanted to put it in an unflattering light. 

It’s a skill Stiles has had since he was a teenager, but one that he left untested until he left Beacon Hills. Until he’d started hustling, until it was a necessary skill. 

He doesn’t know much about being a spark, but he is fairly certain that it’s a grade A abuse of his powers to use them to get tricks to do what he wants—to do what _they_ want, with abandon. 

If there had ever been a time when that idea made Stiles feel guilty, it has long since passed. 

He studies Derek, taking him in. He looks mostly the same as he always has, a broody, larger than life werewolf, seemingly perpetually caught in some inner turmoil over what he wants versus what he thinks he should do. It’s a little alarming, how little that baseline personality trait seems to have changed since the last time Stiles saw him. 

_Some things never change, do they?_

“So you don’t want to be daddy?” Stiles gives Derek a purposely suggestive look from beneath lowered lashes. “I’ m not so sure you don’t. I mean, what with rescuing me from that bar like a wayward boy in trouble.” 

Derek frowns—and yeah, seven years might have passed, but that expression looks exactly like it did when Stiles was a teenager. “That’s not what I did. And that’s not what I want.” 

“Oh, then what was it?” Stiles closes in on Derek, brushing past him at the last second and flopping onto the room’s lone double bed. He leans back against the headboard, stretching out his long legs, purposely leaving his boots on and dragging them over the comforter as he crosses his feet at the ankle. 

“I”—Derek pauses, looking frustrated. “I don’t fucking know.”

Stiles slides down a little bit on the bed, until he’s almost fully prone. “Well, come over here and let’s see if we can’t figure it out.” 

Derek makes a face, looking put upon, and Stiles stifles the urge to roll his eyes. The guilt is coming off of Derek in waves, and it’s just so fucking tiresome. The $500 Derek is paying him tonight means Stiles won’t have to work the rest of the week, if he doesn’t feel like it—and Derek’s still as unnaturally hot as he ever was, maybe even more so with the slight addition of laugh lines around his eyes, a persistent little wrinkle in the middle of his forehead, a day or two of scruff on his face. His thirties look fucking good on him. And so here Stiles is, booked for the night with a guy he actually _wants_ to fuck, and Derek looks deadset on ruining it with some misplaced sense of chivalry or some shit. 

Stiles uncrosses his ankles, spreads his legs just a _little_ , enough to be suggestive without being blatant. He can tell, already, that Derek is going to be most responsive if he can pretend Stiles isn’t a whore, that Derek didn’t pay for this. Which, fine—Derek’s not the first guy to want that. 

Derek sits down on the bed, and Stiles can’t help but just look at him a bit. It’s so strange, seeing him here, looking basically the same as he ever has. Motorcycle boots, tight jeans, black t-shirt. Stiles would bet just about anything that there’s a leather jacket on the backseat of the Camaro. A part of Stiles—a mean, small part that maybe was always in him, was definitely in him after Eichen house, after the nemeton, after all of it—thinks that it’s sort of pathetic, how little Derek seems to have changed. 

Of course, change doesn’t equal progress. Does it count as making it out of your hometown if you just move away to a smaller, crappier town? And pay your bills on your knees? 

So maybe Stiles doesn’t have any room to talk. 

“Come here,” Stiles repeats, patting the space on the bed beside him. 

Derek looks at him, and Stiles can’t quite read his expression, but he does as Stiles asks, shifting until he’s next to Stiles, not quite lying down, leaned back against the headboard. 

He’s _big_ , shoulders impossibly broad, still. 

Stiles turns toward him, tangles one of his legs over Derek’s. Derek is watching him, looking cautious but interested, and Stiles leans forward and brushes his mouth over Derek’s. It’s soft—no tongue, just pressure, and he opens his mouth just enough to pull Derek’s lower lip between his own. 

Derek returns the kiss for a moment, but when Stiles shifts a little more, getting closer, and slides his tongue out, Derek pulls back a little, giving him a funny look. 

This expression, Stiles can read. “Surprised I’ll kiss you?” he asks. “You should be honored—most of the time I don’t.” Derek’s eyes soften just a little, and Stiles reaches for his face, guides Derek’s lip back to his with a hand at either side of his jaw. “So consider this the Old Friend Special.” 

Before Derek can reply—probably to ruin this somehow with some sort of ridiculous guilt—Stiles kisses him, hard this time, smashing their teeth together a little. 

Finally, Derek responds, and Stiles swallows a laugh when Derek promptly takes control of the kiss, biting down hard on Stiles’ lower lip, then soothing it with his tongue. Stiles moves his hands from Derek’s face, lying back a little, and Derek rolls on top of him, just like Stiles expected. 

Doesn’t want to be a daddy, Stiles’ ass.

*

Stiles feels good underneath him, so fucking good. Lean and almost delicate, a little too skinny, maybe, but so fucking _good_. 

Derek tries not to think, tries to focus only on how it feels, to brace himself above Stiles, to kiss his responsive mouth, to listen to the filthy, breathy little moans he gasps out occasionally. 

If he thinks too much, he’ll wonder if Stiles means any of it, if every little sharp, desperate breath Stiles takes is a put-on, part of the job. If he thinks too much, he’ll wonder how this sharp-faced man writhing under him has any connection to the sweet, awkward boy he knew. Wonder how he got here. Wonder why he never came home. 

So he doesn’t think, just lets himself take what Stiles is offering. 

And Stiles is offering so much. 

He’s pliant under Derek’s hands, under his thighs, groaning encouragement but never taking the lead—and Derek is canny enough to realize that Stiles is leading him without appearing to do it, giving Derek every semblance of control. 

And Derek is happy to play the game with him. But a part of him, almost too deep for him to be cognizant of, can’t help but imagine what it would be like if Stiles weren’t being paid, if this weren’t his job. 

If Derek could take him apart, one breath and moan at a time, and it would be _real_.

When they’re both naked, Derek pulls back and takes a moment just to admire Stiles’ body, the intricate black tattoos that snake up his arms, twisty vines and webs, a writhing, beautiful mess that looks like a continual work in progress. His lean, narrow chest and shoulders, looking both strong and delicate at once, a tangle of fragility and steel that makes Derek ache with something he can’t quite name. 

Derek sits back on his heels, realizing suddenly that he doesn’t have lube. 

Stiles, reading his expression, points toward the floor where his jeans are crumpled. “Front pocket,” he says. 

Derek reaches down and fishes around, producing a strip of condoms and a tube of Astroglide. Before he can do anything, Stiles takes both out of his hand, setting the condoms aside and then casually dumping an egregious amount of lube onto Derek’s fingers. “Get me ready,” he says, bending his knees and looking up at Derek, breathless and fucking gorgeous, his innocent expression completely at odds with his absolutely wanton pose. 

Derek fingers him open slowly, and there’s no need to go so slow, really—Stiles is immediately responsive, rocking up to meet his fingers, groaning encouragements, asking for more. Once he’s at two fingers, Derek’s pretty much certain that he could pull his hand free and shove his cock inside and Stiles wouldn’t so much as blink. 

It’s an incredible turn-on, except that a part of his brain—a horrible, awful, petty part—is screaming at him that Stiles is this relaxed—this _easy_ —because he’s a whore. Because it’s his job. Because he does it all the goddamn time. 

It’s so unfair, and it’s so shitty. But it’s there, in the back of his mind. 

He rolls on the condom, wishing that he didn’t have to wear one. He always does, even though he can’t carry or transmit diseases. It’s the polite thing to do for his partners, who of course aren’t aware of his lycanthropic advantages. Stiles, though, Stiles knows, and Derek wishes he could just take the damn thing off and toss it aside. 

He can’t bring himself to ask, though, and Stiles doesn’t offer. 

*

The next morning, Derek wakes up by degrees, first becoming aware of Stiles’ pulse, then his warm body sprawled out next to Derek’s, their legs a little tangled up. 

Stiles, the hustler, whom he’d paid $500 for. Stiles, the hustler, whom he’d fucked three times. Pushing into him roughly, without much finesse, the first time. Letting Stiles ride his cock the second time, wanton and slutty and filthy. Pushed against the shower wall, tired and a little desperate, the third time. 

Stiles, the awkward teenager he had once known. 

*

When Stiles wakes up, he smells coffee. Not good coffee, either, not like Derek has made himself useful and gone on a Starbucks run. No, this is the shitty hotel room coffee made with the shitty little hotel room coffee pot. But it’s better than nothing, and Stiles scrubs his hands over his eyes, sitting up. 

On the counter next to the crappy coffee is a package of Reese cups, laid out like an offering. 

Derek bought him fucking Reese’s from the vending machine. 

Goddamn. 

“Wow, breakfast in bed. You charmer, how is it you have to pay for sex?” Stiles pops off, looking over at Derek, who’s sitting in the room’s one lone chair, a rickety thing parked in front of the cramped writing desk beside the tv. “Hotel room coffee _and_ Reese’s? Shit.” 

“There’s nothing else here.” 

“It’s cool. Breakfast isn’t usually part of the deal.”

Derek flinches a little, and Stiles sort of feels like an asshole—but seriously, come the fuck on. Derek knows exactly what this is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love. Come find me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com) and let's talk about our beautiful broken boys.


	3. It's Plain to See You're a Dangerous Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title from Lucero's "A Dangerous Thing."

It’s a week after his trip up north, his impromptu stay at the Walker Days Inn, when Derek finally caves and texts Stiles.

He’s nervous when he does it, mostly because he’s not sure it’s Stiles’ real number. Stiles hadn’t been especially keen to give it to him when he’d asked. Had given him a funny look, then flat out asked why Derek would want it. 

“Maybe I’ll be back this way on pack business,” Derek had said, leaving it open-ended. 

Stiles, of course, had refused to let Derek off that easily. “Gonna throw some business my way, then?” 

Derek had grimaced. He doesn’t want to think about it as a business transaction. Doesn’t know how he _does_ want to consider it, but not like that. 

“Something like that,” was all he’d said, and Stiles had reluctantly handed him a scrap of paper with a number scrawled across it, and a single letter S below them. 

Now, as he tries to compose a text, Derek isn’t sure how to begin. It’s hard to know what to say when he isn’t sure what he wants. 

A part of him wants to go get Stiles, drag him back to Beacon Hills, and tell him to quit being such a fucking asshole. There’s no reason for Stiles to be doing this, hooking in some awful roughneck bar, putting himself in danger every night. He could come home, get a regular fucking job, live a normal fucking life. Be with people who care about him. 

Another part of him wants to pay him the $500 again and shove Stiles down, hard, and fuck him like the whore he apparently is. Rough and sloppy, maybe a little mean. 

Yet another part of him wants to scoop Stiles up and take him out to dinner, tell him to eat something, for Christ’s sake, before he blows away in a stiff breeze. Maybe get a good night’s sleep while he’s at it. 

It’s maddening, the way he’s reacting to Stiles. 

In the end, he sends this: _I didn’t tell anyone in Beacon Hills that I saw you._

Ten minutes or so pass, and then he gets this in response: _Is this Derek?_

Well, shit. 

_Yes._

 _Uh thanks for keeping my secret I guess, dude._

Derek hadn’t meant that it was a secret, exactly. Just that he’d kept it to himself, that he wasn’t going around telling the pack that he’d found Stiles hooking in a bar up north. That he respected Stiles’ privacy. 

Before Derek can decide what to say, his phone dings again. 

_So are you coming up here again?_

 _Yeah, tomorrow._

Derek stares at his phone, wondering what he wants Stiles to say. 

_You want some company, stud?_

Stiles’ sarcastic lilt somehow oozes right through the screen, and Derek isn’t sure how to respond. He stands there like an idiot, thumbs hovering over his phone, for a while before he finally types something. 

_Meet me at the Days Inn. 7:00._

 _Again? Shit, and here I thought you’d just want me to blow you in the bathroom this time._

Derek can feel his jaw tighten and tic. Fucking Stiles. He doesn’t know how it’s possible to want someone and want to smother them so much in equal measure. 

That night when he lies down to sleep, Derek doesn’t even try to pretend he’s going to think about anything but Stiles when he jerks off. He doesn’t bother looking at porn, doesn’t kid himself at all about what this is. 

Just slips his hand under the sheets and lets himself think of Stiles, lets himself imagine that it’s Stiles’ hand running down his belly, wrapping around his cock. 

The funny thing is that his mental image of Stiles isn’t quite right. He doesn’t imagine Stiles as he used to be—not the gawky, awkward teenager whom Derek had thrown into walls and lockers so long ago. But he also doesn’t imagine Stiles as he is now—hard-edged and mouthy, sexily aloof and unaffected. 

Instead, the Stiles he pictures is somewhere between the two, not quite the child and not quite the man. 

Derek isn’t cognizant of what he’s doing—the entirety of his concentration is on the slide of his hand on his cock, nothing but precome for lube, a little rough, just shy of uncomfortable. But if he stopped to think about it, he would realize that the Stiles in his mind’s eye is, perhaps, the man Stiles would have been if he hadn’t left Beacon Hills. 

And the thing is, Derek’s not even sure why Stiles left. Not really. The Sheriff had died at the end of Stiles’ senior year—just a week after his graduation. A freak thing, a fucking car accident. Nothing supernatural, nothing special, just the ridiculous everyday danger of life. Just real fucking bad luck. 

So yeah, Derek can infer that the Sheriff’s death was what drove Stiles out of Beacon Hills, but that still doesn’t really explain everything. It’s certainly no reason to be working as a fucking hooker, seven years later. 

Shit, Derek’s whole family is gone, too, but he isn’t fucking strangers for money. 

But none of that is on Derek’s mind right now—the only thing he’s thinking of is Stiles. Stiles’ long, slender fingers wrapped around his cock. His messy, one-step-from-dirty hair, a little too long and the perfect length for Derek to grab in his hands while he fucks Stiles’ mouth. His pretty, pert, obstinate fucking mouth. 

When he comes, Derek doesn’t say Stiles’ name. He doesn’t say anything, barely makes a sound. 

*

When he gets to the motel the next evening, Derek is already tired, a little cranky. He’s just had his first meeting with a werewolf from the neighboring pack whose territory butts up against the McCall pack—the pack that Scott is negotiating with over the territory that includes Walker and the surrounding towns. Derek isn’t particularly impressed with him; it was a tiresome meeting, and the biggest impression Derek got from the guy was that he was a little too cocky, a little too pleased to be a wolf. It happened that way with bitten wolves, sometimes. Drunk on power. Assholes. 

The upshot of the meeting—which accomplished nothing but annoying Derek and making him predisposed to disliking the other pack—is that Derek is tired, a little on edge. Honestly, he’s not even sure he should have contacted Stiles. A little part of him sort of wishes he could just head south and go back to Beacon Hills, forget the whole thing. 

Except that he doesn’t want that. Not really. 

The first thing Derek sees when he pulls into the Days Inn parking lot is Stiles’ Jeep. He sort of can’t believe it still runs. Before Derek can do more than park, Stiles is climbing out and striding across the parking lot toward him, all long limbs and angular grace. 

He doesn’t even move like the boy Derek had known. 

Derek feels immediately guilty, as he goes to rent a room. Stiles looks like the hooker he is—his jeans are too tight, slung too low on his hips, and his t-shirt’s too small, his nipples clearly visible though the worn white fabric. He hasn’t bothered with eyeliner this time, but his lips are sticky-pink, too shiny to be anything but glossed. 

He looks like a fucking whore. And Derek must look like a trick. And this must look like exactly what it is. 

Derek can feel his cheeks burn as he hands over his credit card, but Stiles appears completely unaffected, lounging next to him, skinny fingers tapping out a staccato beat on the countertop. He looks like he’s daring anyone to say something to them, to suggest that they might be what they are.

When they get to the room, Stiles kicks off his boots and sprawls across the bed, making a production out of getting comfortable. “So another all-nighter, huh? I’m honored.” He grins up at Derek, cheeky and a little challenging. “You should tell me what you want—what you really want—so I can make it happen for you.” 

Derek doesn’t quite know how to respond. The truth is, what he wants isn’t for Stiles to fulfill some crazy fantasy for him—although, if he were being honest, there are plenty of things he might like to see Stiles do, or maybe do to Stiles. What he wants is for this to be happening somewhere besides a crappy motel off the interstate exit. What he wants is for this to be a fuck, not a transaction. Hell, maybe more than a fuck. But at the very least, not something he’s paying for. 

But that isn’t on the table. Everything else apparently is, but not that. 

“Doesn’t have to be something particular,” Derek begins, but Stiles cuts him off. 

“Dude, you gotta give me something to work with here. What do you want? You’re paying for it. You should get it.” Stiles gives him a look, sloe-eyed and a little sinful, from under his long lashes. 

“Just—just come here.” 

*

It’s better this time than last week—which is saying something, since Derek’s orgasms had been pretty spectacular last weekend, too. 

They kiss and kiss, longer than Derek expects Stiles to put up with, until Derek’s cock is aching and he wants to do so many things to Stiles, wants to take him apart piece by piece, wants to fuck into him relentlessly, wants to break him in half on his cock. 

He settles for getting Stiles on his hands and knees at the end of the bed and fucking into him from behind, leaning over him, draping his chest across Stiles’ lean, muscled back. 

He fucks him hard, shoving his hips forward in a brutal pace, and Stiles takes it beautifully, moaning a little, just on the strokes where Derek hits his prostate just right, just when Derek grips him a little tighter, fucks him a little harder. 

He’s perfect, and Derek can’t help wondering if it’s an act or not. 

And sure, he knows that Stiles is, at least, turned on. His cock’s hard, for one thing. And he smells aroused, a warm cinnamon scent of heat and anticipation that is uniquely Stiles.

And he comes, hard and messy all over the bedspread, right after Derek himself comes, spurting into a condom that he wishes he weren’t wearing. So, yeah, Derek can say with some certainly that Stiles is not miserable. But at the end of the day, Derek is also pretty certain Stiles wouldn’t be here if he weren’t being paid. 

*

They fall asleep pressed tightly together, mostly because Derek just pulls Stiles to him and holds him there. He hesitates a bit, wonders if that’s appropriate—but fuck it. He’s paid $500 for Stiles’ company. If that gives him the right to shove his dick inside him, to come in his ass and down his throat, then surely it also purchases him the right to wrap his arms around the man as he sleeps. 

*

“This was fun,” Derek says the next morning, meaning it. It _was_ fun. It was also weird and expensive and a little disconcerting, but still. 

Stiles gives him a crooked smile, a little gentler than usual. “Yeah.” He’s standing beside the bed, jeans zipped but not buttoned, pulling his tight white t-shirt over his head. 

Derek pulls his own shirt on, then busies himself with socks and shoes as he speaks again. “I’ll be back up this way again. Probably quite a few times, till we get this mess straightened out.” He sighs, inadvertently having reminded himself of the frustrating meeting the night before. 

Stiles smiles again, and he looks more like himself than ever. “Should I expect the pleasure of your company every time you do?”

“Would you mind?” 

“Shit, no,” Stiles says, his voice gentler than the words belie. “Why would I mind making $500 to sleep with someone I actually like? This is heaven.” 

Derek peers up at him. “Why don’t you come home?” He didn’t plan to say it. Didn’t even consider it. The words just came out. 

Stiles’ expression shifts, closing in on itself. “What?”

“If you don’t like it? Sleeping with people you don’t—don’t like, aren’t attracted to. Don’t fucking do it. Come home.” 

By the time he’s finished speaking, Stiles’ whole demeanor has changed. Gone is the sleepy-soft morning version of Stiles, his content expression and easy smiles. In his place is the hard-edged man Derek had met the previous weekend. 

“Don’t try and save me, Derek. Scott already tried.” He laughs, a bitter and cruel sound. “And if Scott can’t do it, you sure as shit can’t. Don’t kid yourself.” 

It takes all of Derek’s control not to stumble on his feet at Stiles’ words, the sudden heat and sharpness of them. _If Scott can’t do it, you sure as shit can’t._ Stiles is right, of course. Scott has been better than Derek in every way that matters—at taking care of his betas, at being an alpha, at being a friend. Stiles is right. 

The boy Derek had known wouldn’t have said it, though. Wouldn’t have gone for the throat like that, exposing Derek’s greatest insecurity, his own failures. 

A million retorts fly through Derek’s mind—most of them revolve around calling Stiles a whore, in some fashion—and he swallows them all down. He has a feeling that it would just prove Stiles right, somehow, if he did. Like Stiles is expecting him to be a dick. Like he _wants_ him to be. 

In the end, Derek just turns on his heel and walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you are so very welcome to come see me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com), where I am taking prompts and occasionally writing filthy ficlets.


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